Right. Hot chocolate. I’ve got this.
I might have been living by myself for quite some time now, but I’d be lying if I said I was any good at anything in the kitchen other than the coffee machine.
After placing everything on the counter, I pick up the chocolate powder and turn it to find the instructions.
It’s ridiculous. In a few months’ time, I’m going to be allowed to take control of a newborn baby, and here I am unable to make something as simple as a hot chocolate.
Bea really should reconsider wanting me in our kid’s life. I don’t have anything to offer a baby. I spend my days trying to stop a bit of rubber from going into a net by whatever means necessary. I barely have any redeeming qualities, and any passable ones are overshadowed by my anger issues.
I don’t…I shouldn’t be a father.
Lowering the container, I press my palms to the cool countertop and hang my head, trying to get ahold of my racing thoughts.
I don’t know how long I stand there frozen, drowning in my failures, but I practically jump out of my own skin when a hand presses against my back, and Bea peers around me to see what’s going on.
“Is everything okay?” she asks softly, looking at everything on the counter and then up to my face. I have no idea what she might be able to read in my expression, and to be honest, I’d rather not know.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing the emotion from my throat. “Go and sit down, I’ll bring this over in a bit.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat before she looks back down.
“Oh, you managed to get my favorite,” she praises, snatching up the chocolate powder. “I love this one because it goes in warm milk and it’s so much creamier than the ones that need water.” She looks around my kitchen at the very sparse selection of equipment I have. If she had any questions about my culinary skills, then I think they’ve just been answered. “We just need one of these,” she says, grabbing a small pan and taking it over to the stove. “Milk,” she demands, and without conscious thought, I pull open the fridge and grab it for her. “Do you want one?” she asks before looking up.
“I thought I was meant to be making this for you.”
She smiles up at me, so calm and patient. “We can do it together.”
My throat gets all thick again, and I try and fail to swallow it away.
“I’ll have one too,” I agree, roughly.
“Okay, then I need two mugs.”
I stand there uselessly as she pours milk into one of the mugs and then decants that into the pan. It takes me longer than it should to realize she’s measuring two portions.
“I’m gonna go and get changed,” I tell her, but before I can move, she spins around and looks at me. I swear my heart skips a beat. She’s got the most incredible smile, and the way her eyes twinkle under the bright spotlight above us?—
“Open your mouth,” she suddenly demands.
“Wha—” My question is cut off when she sprays whipped cream into my mouth.
Laughter peals out of her as I gawp, taking a moment to understand what just happened.
I look from her eyes to her mouth, and then down to her hand, where the offending can of whipped cream hangs.
“You did not just squirt that in my mouth.”
She continues giggling.
“Oh, you’re going down.”
I launch myself at her. She tries to run, but she doesn’t stand a chance against me. In only seconds, I wrap my arm around her waist, pinning her back against my chest.
“Everett, no,” she cries through her laughter.
She attempts to hold the can out of my reach, but my arms are substantially longer than hers, and I snatch it free with no effort.
“No, no,” she squeals, wriggling against me.
